"I love you."

"Ryan! Wake up," bellowed my father as he stormed into my room and flicked on my light, "We're going to go visit your mother today."

I rolled out of bed and switched out of my pajamas. I had visited my mom at the hospital once a week for the past six months. She suffers from lung cancer as a result of abusing cigarettes, drugs, as a teen and young adult. She had been in and out of rehab for the past five years before being diagnosed with cancer about a year ago.

Before all of this, when I was young and unaware of her issues, she was everything I looked up to. I remember how we used to turn up the volume as high as possible whenever my favorite song "I love rock and roll" came on in the car radio and we would just dance and sing our hearts out.

When she was diagnosed with cancer, I stopped talking. I just simply stopped. No matter how much I wanted to say, I just couldn't say it. I've barely said a word since. The doctors couldn't provide any explanation for this to my eager father, and he eventually stopped trying to get me to talk.

Now as I sat in the back of the car on the way to the hospital, my father announced to me and my little brother Sammie the words I had been dreading. "She isn't doing well. Chemo isn't doing anything to make her better and she's been getting sicker by the day. Things aren't looking good."

He looked at me for a response. I turned away from him and stared out the window. He frowned and turned on the radio. It was my favorite song. I sat back and remembered all the memories me and my mom have together surrounding this song.

She couldn't be dying. She wasn't going to die, was she? She was going to die without me ever saying goodbye. Because I was too afraid to talk.

Everything in my life has been ruined because I barely talk. All my friends left me. My dad is disappointed in me and our relationship has been ruined. My little brother barely knows me. Why couldn't I just talk? It's not that hard. I just have to speak. Who knew that something so simple could change one's life so drastically?

We arrived at the hospital. We checked in, and made our way up to her room.

"Come in!" she croaked as my father knocked on the door.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" asked my father, handing mom some flowers.

She started to answer, but a coughing fit came over her and she needed a moment regain her composure. She then turned to me.

"How's school?" she asked. I could only nod. I wanted to tell her about it, but I couldn't.

She directed her attention back to my father. I watched as they had a long conversation about who knows what. Whatever it was it didn't concern me. One thing I did hear was "The nurse says I'm running out of time.", and the rest was a blur. After what seemed like three hours, mom began getting sleepy and she dozed off. My dad motioned towards the door. I gave her one last look. I could see she was struggling to breathe. The ventilator strapped tightly around her face was pumping maximum amount of air into her lungs, but it still wasn't enough. I wanted to help her, but I couldn't. I followed my father out the door.

"You're a failure," I thought to myself, "Not even one word came out of your mouth. Not even one word of reassurance to your dying mother. You missed your chance.".

Or did I?

"WAIT!" I yelled.

I turned around and ran back towards the room.

"Where are you going??" asked my father, shocked that I had said something even if it was small. I ignored him and ran as fast as I could. I wanted to answer her question about school. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her. I wanted to tell her every little detail about my life.

I burst open the door, startling her awake from her deep sleep. This was my moment. I could do this. I opened my mouth. I just had to speak.

"M-m.." I struggled to form the words.

"I love you." I blurted.

A grand smile appeared on her worn face.

"I love you too."

My father entered the room and patted my on the back. We all held hands as I let out everything I've wanted to tell her. It felt amazing. I felt like myself again.

Three weeks later, she passed away. In those last three weeks, I visited her every day and we played games, talked, etc. All this made me wonder why I ever stopped talking. We always take for granted things that could be so important and hard for others. When she died, I was torn. But I was grateful that I was able to have time with her before she died. After she died, I made sure to strengthen my relationship with my father. I learned we had so much more in common that I thought we did. All I had to do was talk.

I also spent more time with my brother Sammie. He was only two, so he did know exactly what had happened. I would take him on walks, play legos with him, watch his favorite tv shows with him and much much more. Even though my mom was gone and it still hurt when I thought about it, I knew I had a family again.

I returned back to school a month after her death. It was hard to make friends, and I was generally quiet. I looked forward to working on my communication skills at school.

I also created an online profile to spread awareness about my story. Many people told me that they had the same problem with not talking, and I was able to help them.

Instead of bottling up my pain how I used to, I would find solutions. I would write letters to my mom, then place them by her grave. It was the only way I was able to feel closer to her.

Life was pretty good.